Glory Road

Chapter 15

"Boss," said Rufo, "Look out over the plain."

"At what?"

"At nothing," he answered. "Those bodies are gone. You sure as hell ought to be able to see them, against black sand and not even a bush to break the view."

I didn't look. "That's the moose's problem, damn it! We've got work to do. Star, can you shoot left-handed? One of these pistol things?"

"Certainly, milord."

"You stay ten feet behind me and shoot anything that moves. Rufo, you follow Star, bow ready and an arrow nocked. Try for anything you see. Sling one of those guns—make a sling out of a bit of line." I frowned. "We'll have to abandon most of this. Star, you can't bend a bow, so leave it behind, pretty as it is, and your quiver. Rufo can sling my quiver with his; we use the same arrows. I hate to abandon my bow, it suits me so. But I must. Damn."

"I'll carry it, my Hero."

"No, any clutter we can't use must be junked." I unhooked my canteen, drank deeply, passed it over. "You two finish it and throw it away." While Rufo drank, Star slung my bow. "Milord husband? It weighs nothing this way and doesn't hamper my shooting arm. So?"

"Well—If it gets in your way, cut the string and forget it. Now drink your fill and we go." I peered down the corridor we were in—fifteen feet wide and the same high, lighted from nowhere and curving away to the right, which matched the picture in my mind. "Ready? Stay closed up. If we can't slice it, shoot it, or shaft it, we'll salute it." I drew sword and we set out, quick march.

Why my sword, rather than one of those "death ray" guns? Star was carrying one of those and knew more about one than I did. I didn't even know how to tell if one was charged, nor had I judgment in how long to press the button. She could shoot, her bowmanship proved that, and she was at least as cool in a fight as Rufo or myself.

I had disposed weapons and troops as well as I knew how. Rufo, behind with a stock of arrows, could use them if needed and his position gave him time to shift to either sword or Buck Rogers "rifle" if his judgment said to—and I didn't need to advise him; he would.

So I was backed up by long-range weapons ancient and ultramodern in the hands of people who knew how to use them and temperament to match—the latter being the more important. (Do you know how many men in a platoon actually shoot in combat? Maybe six. More likely three. The rest freeze up.)

Still, why didn't I sheathe my sword and carry one of those wonder weapons?

A properly balanced sword is the most versatile weapon for close quarters ever devised. Pistols and guns are all offense, no defense; close on him fast and a man with a gun can't shoot, he has to stop you before you reach him. Close on a man carrying a blade and you'll be spitted like a roast pigeon—unless you have a blade and can use it better than he can.

A sword never jams, never has to be reloaded, is always ready. Its worst shortcoming is that it takes great skill and patient, loving practice to gain that skill; it can't be taught to raw recruits in weeks, nor even months.

But most of all (and this was the real reason) to grasp the Lady Vivamus and feel her eagerness to bite gave me courage in a spot where I was scared spitless.

They (whoever "they" were) could shoot us from ambush, gas us, booby-trap us, many things. But they could do those things even if I carried one of those strange guns. Sword in hand, I was relaxed and unafraid—and that made my tiny "command" more nearly safe. If a C.O. needs to carry a rabbit's foot, he should—and the grip of that sweet sword was bigger medicine than all the rabbits' feet in Kansas.

The corridor stretched ahead, no break, no sound, no threat. Soon the opening to the outside could no longer be seen. The great Tower felt empty but not dead; it was alive the way a museum is alive at night, with crowding presence and ancient evil. I gripped my sword tightly, then consciously relaxed and flexed my fingers.

We came to a sharp left turn. I stopped short. "Star, this wasn't on your sketch."

She didn't answer. I persisted, "Well, it wasn't. Was it?"

"I am not sure, milord."

"Well, I am. Hmm—"

"Boss," said Rufo, "are you dead sure we entered by the right pigeonhole?"

"I'm certain. I may be wrong but I'm not uncertain—and if I'm wrong, we're dead pigeons anyhow. Mmm—Rufo, take your bow, put your hat on it, stick it out where a man would IOOK around that corner if he were standing—and time it as I do look out, but lower down." I got on my belly.

"Ready...now!" I sneaked a look six inches above the floor while Rufo tried to draw fire higher up.

Nothing in sight, just bare corridor, straight now.

"Okay, follow me! We hurried around the corner.

I stopped after a few paces. "What the hell?"

"Something wrong Boss?"

"Plenty." I turned and sniffed. "Wrong as can be. The Egg is up that way," I said, pointing, "maybe two hundred yards—by the sketch block map."

"Is that bad?"

"I'm not sure. Because it was that same direction and angle, off on the left, before we turned that corner. So now it ought to be on the right."

Rufo said, "Look, Boss, why don't we just follow the passageways you memorized? You may not remember every little—"

"Shut up. Watch ahead, down the corridor. Star, stand there in the corner and watch me. I'm going to try something."

They placed themselves, Rufo "eyes ahead" and Star where she could see both ways, at the right-angle bend. I went back into the first reach of corridor, then returned. Just short of the bend I closed my eyes and kept on.

I stopped after another dozen steps and opened my eyes. "That proves it," I said to Rufo.

"Proves what?"

"There isn't any bend in the corridor." I pointed to the bend.

Rufo looked worried. "Boss, how do you feel?" He tried to touch my cheek.

I pulled back. "I'm not feverish. Come with me, both of you." I led them back around that right angle some fifty feet and stopped. "Rufo, loose an arrow at that wall ahead of us at the bend. Lob it so that it hits the wall about ten feet up."

Rufo sighed but did so. The arrow rose true, disappeared in the wall. Rufo shrugged. "Must be pretty soft up there. You've lost us an arrow. Boss."

"Maybe. Places and follow me." We took that corner again and here was the spent arrow on the floor somewhat farther along than the distance from loosing to bend. I let Rufo pick it up; he looked closely at the Doral chop by the fletching, returned it to quiver. He said nothing. We kept going.

We came to a place where steps led downward—but where the sketch in my head called for steps leading up. "Mind the first step," I called back. "Feel for it and don't fall."

The steps felt normal, for steps leading downward—with the exception that my bump of direction told me that we were climbing, and our destination changed angle and distance accordingly. I closed my eyes for a quick test and found that I was indeed climbing, only my eyes were deceived. It was like one of those "crooked houses" in amusement parks, in which a "level" floor is anything but level—like that but cubed.

I quit questioning the accuracy of Star's sketch and tracked its trace in my head regardless of what my eyes told me. When the passageway branched four ways while my memory showed only a simple branching, one being a dead end, I unhesitatingly closed my eyes and followed my nose—and the Egg stayed where it should stay, in my mind.

But the Egg did not necessarily get closer with each twist and turn save in the sense that a straight line is not the shortest distance between two points—is it ever? The path was as twisted as guts in a belly; the architect had used a pretzel for a straight edge. Worse yet, another time when we were climbing "up" stairs—at a piece level by the sketch—a gravitational anomaly caught us with a lull turn and we were suddenly sliding down the ceiling.

No harm done save that it twisted again as we hit bottom and dumped us from ceiling to floor. With both eyes peeled I helped Rufo gather up arrows and off we set again. We were getting close to the lair of the Never-Born—and the Egg.

Passageways began to be narrow and rocky, the false twists tight and hard to negotiate—and the light began to fail.

That wasn't the worst. I'm not afraid of dark nor of tight places; it takes a department store elevator on Dollar Day to give me claustrophobia. But I began to hear rats.

Rats, lots of rats, running and squeaking in the walls around us, under us, over us. I started to sweat and was sorry I had taken that big drink of water. Darkness and closeness got worse, until we were crawling through a rough tunnel in rock, then inching along on our bellies in total darkness as if tunneling out of Chateau d'If...and rats brushed past us now, squeaking and chittering.

No, I didn't scream. Star was behind me and she didn't scream and she didn't complain about her wounded arm—so I couldn't scream. She patted me on the foot each time she inched forward, to tell me that she was all right and to report that Rufo was okay, too. We didn't waste strength on talk.

I saw a faint something, two ghosts of light ahead, and stopped and stared and blinked and stared again. Then I whispered to Star, "I see something. Stay put, while I move up and see what it is. Hear me?"

"Yes, milord Hero."

"Tell Rufo."

Then I did the only really brave thing I have ever done in my life: I inched forward. Bravery is going on anyhow when you are so terrified your sphincters won't hold and you can't breathe and your heart threatens to stop, and that is an exact description for that moment of E. C. Gordon, ex-Pfc. and hero by trade. I was fairly certain what those two faint lights were and the closer I got the more certain I was—I could smell the damned thing and place its outlines.

A rat. Not the common rat that lives in city dumps and sometimes gnaws babies, but a giant rat, big enough to block that rat hole but enough smaller than I am to have room to maneuver in attacking me—room I didn't have at all. The best I could do was to wriggle forward with my sword in front of me and try to Keep the point aimed so that I would catch him with it, make mm eat steel—because if he dodged past that point I would have nothing but bare hands and no room to use them. He would be at my face.

I gulped sour vomit and inched forward. His eyes seemed to drop a little as if he were crouching to charge.

But no rush came. The lights got more definite and wider apart, and when I had squeezed a foot or two farther I realized with shaking relief that they were not rat's eyes but something else—anything, I didn't care what.

I continued to inch forward. Not only was the Egg in that direction but I still didn't know what it was and I had best see before telling Star to move up.

The "eyes" were twin pinholes in a tapestry that covered the end of that rat hole. I could see its embroidered texture and I found I could look through one of its imperfections when I got up to it.

There was a large room beyond, the floor a couple of feet lower than where I was. At the far end, fifty feet away, a man was standing by a bench, reading a book. Even as I watched he raised his eyes and glanced my way. He seemed to hesitate.

I didn't. The hole had eased enough so that I managed one foot under and lunged forward, brushing the arras aside with my sword. I stumbled and bounced to my feet, on guard.

He was at least as fast. He had slapped the book down on the bench and drawn sword himself, advanced toward me, while I was popping out of that hole. He stopped, knees bent, wrist straight, left arm back, and point for me, perfect as a fencing master, and looked me over, not yet engaged by three or four feet between our steels.

I did not rush him. There is a go-for-broke tactic, "the target," taught by the best swordmasters, which consists in headlong advance with arm, wrist, and blade in full extension—all attack and no attempt to parry. But it works only by perfect timing when you see your opponent slacken up momentarily. Otherwise it is suicide.

This time it would have been suicide; he was as ready as a tomcat with his back up. So I sized him up while he looked me over. He was a smallish neat man with arms long for his height—I might or might not have reach on him, especially as his rapier was an old style, longer than Lady Vivamus (but slower thereby, unless he had a much stronger wrist) -- and he was dressed more for the Paris of Richelieu than for Karth-Hokesh. No, that's not fair; the great black Tower had no styles, else I would have been as out of style in my fake Robin Hood getup. The Iglis we had killed had worn no clothes.

He was an ugly cocky little man with a merry grin and the biggest nose west of Durante—made me think of my first sergeant's nose, very sensitive he was about being called "Schnozzola." But the resemblance stopped there; my first sergeant never smiled and had mean, piggish eyes; this man's eyes were merry and proud.

"Are you Christian?" he demanded.

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing. Blood's blood, either way. If Christian you be, confess. If pagan, call your false gods. I'll allow you no more than three stanzas. But I'm sentimental, I like to know what I'm killing."

"I'm American."

"Is that a country? Or a disease? And what are you doing in Hoax?"

" ‘Hoax'? Hokesh?"

He shrugged only with his eyes, his point never moved. "Hoax, Hokesh—a matter of geography and accent; this chateau was once in the Carpathians, so ‘Hokesh' it is, if ‘twill make your death merrier. Come now, let us sing."

He advanced so fast and smoothly that he seemed to apport and our blades rang as I parried his attack in sixte and riposted, was countered—remise, reprise, beat-and-attack—the phrase ran so smoothly, so long, and in such variation that a spectator might have thought that we were running through Grand Salute.

But I knew! That first lunge was meant to kill me, and so was his every move throughout the phrase. At the same time he was feeling me out, trying my wrist, looking for weaknesses, whether I was afraid of low line and always returned to high or perhaps was a sucker for a disarm. I never lunged, never had a chance to; every part of the phrase was forced on me, I simply replied, tried to stay alive.

I knew in three seconds that I was up against a better swordsman than myself, with a wrist like steel yet supple as a striking snake. He was the only swordsman I have ever met who used prime and octave—used them, I mean, as readily as sixte and carte. Everyone learns them and my own master made me practice them as much as the other six—but most fencers don't use them; they simply may be forced into them, awkwardly and just before losing a point.

I would lose, not a point, but my life—and I knew, long before the end of that first long phrase, that my life was what I was about to lose, by all odds.

Yet at first clash the idiot began to sing!

"Lunge and counter and thrust,

"Sing me the logic of steel!

"Tell me, sir, how do you feel?

"Riposte and remise if you must

"In logic long known to be just.

"Shall we argue, rebut and refute

"In enthymeme clear as your eye?

"Tell me, sir, why do you sigh?

"Tu es fatigue, sans doute?

"Then sleep while I'm counting the loot."

The above was long enough for at least thirty almost successful attempts on my life, and on the last word he disengaged as smoothly and unexpectedly as he had engaged.

"Come, come, lad!" he said. "Pick it up! Would let me sing alone? Would die as a clown with ladies watching? Sing! -- and say good-bye gracefully, with your last rhyme racing your death rattle." He banged his right boot in a flamenco stomp. "Try! The price is the same either way."

I didn't drop my eyes at the sound of his boot; it's an old gambit, some fencers stomp on every advance, every feint, on the chance that the noise will startle opponent out of timing, or into rocking back, and thus gain a point. I had last fallen for it before I could shave.

But his words gave me an idea. His lunges were short—full extension is fancy play for foils, too dangerous for real work. But I had been retreating, slowly, with the wall behind me. Shortly, when he re-engaged, I would either be a butterfly pinned to that wall, or stumble over something unseen, go arsy-versy, then spiked like wastepaper in the park. I didn't dare leave that wall behind me.

Worst, Star would be coming out of that rat hole behind me any moment now and might be killed as she emerged even if I managed to kill him at the same time. But if I could turn him around—My beloved was a practical woman; no "sportsmanship" would keep her steel stinger out of his back.

But the happy counter-thought was that if I went along with his madness, tried to rhyme and sing, he might play me along, amused to hear what I could do, before he killed me.

But I couldn't afford to stretch it out. Unfelt, he had pinked me in the forearm. Just a bloody scratch that Star could make good as new in minutes—but it would weaken my wrist before long and it disadvantaged me for low line: Blood makes a slippery grip.

"First stanza," I announced, advancing and barely engaging, foible-a-foible. He respected it, not attacking, playing with the end of my blade, tiny counters and leather-touch parries.

That was what I wanted. I started circling right as I began to recite—and he let me:

"Tweedledum and Tweedledee

"Agreed to rustle cattle.

"Said Tweedledum to Tweedledee

"I'll use my nice new saddle."

"Come, come, my old!" he said chidingly. "No stealing. Honor among beeves, always. And rhyme and scansion limp. Let your Carroll fall trippingly off the tongue."

"I'll try," I agreed, still moving right. "Second stanza—

"I sing of two lasses in Birmingham,

"Shall we weep at the scandal concerning them?"

and I rushed him.

It didn't quite work. He had, as I hoped, relaxed the tiniest bit, evidently expecting that I would go on with mock play, tips of Hades alone, while I was reciting.

It caught him barely off guard but he failed to fall back, parrying strongly instead and suddenly we were in an untenable position, corps-a-corps, forte-a-forte, almost tete-a-tete.

He laughed in my face and sprang back as I did, landing us back en garde. But I added something. We had been fencing point only. The point is mightier than the edge but my weapon had both and a man used to the point is sometimes a sucker for a cut. As we separated I flipped my blade at his head.

I meant to split it open. No time for that, no force behind it, but it sliced his right forehead almost to eyebrow.

"Touche" he shouted. "Well struck. And well sung. Let's have the rest of it."

"All right," I agreed, fencing cautiously and waiting for blood to run into his eyes. A scalp wound is the bloodiest of flesh wounds and I had great hopes for this one. And swordplay is an odd thing; you don't really use your mind, it is much too fast for that. Your wrist thinks and tells your feet and body what to do, bypassing your brain—any thinking you do is for later, stored instructions, like a programmed computer.

I went on:

"They're now in the dock

"For lifting the—"

I got him in the forearm, the way he got me, but worse. I thought I had him and pressed home. But he did something I had heard of, never seen: He retreated very fast, flipped his blade and changed hands.

No help to me—A right-handed fencer hates to take on a southpaw; it throws everything out of balance, whereas a southpaw is used to the foibles of the right-handed majority—and this son of a witch was just as strong, just as skilled, with his left hand. Worse, he now had toward me the eye undimmed by blood.

He pinked me again, in the kneecap, hurting like fire and slowing me. Despite his wounds, much worse than mine, I knew I couldn't go on much longer. We settled down to grim work.

There is a riposte in seconde, desperately dangerous but brilliant—if you bring it off. It had won me several matches in 6pee with nothing at stake but a score. It starts from sixte; first your opponent counters. Instead of parrying to carte, you press and bind, sliding all the way down and around his blade and corkscrewing in till your point finds flesh. Or you can beat, counter, and bind, starting from sixte, thus setting it off yourself.

Its shortcoming is that, unless it is done perfectly, it is too late for parry and riposte; you run your own chest against his point.

I didn't try to initiate it, not against this swordsman; I just thought about it.

We continued to fence, perfectly each of us. Then he stepped back slightly while countering and barely skidded in his own blood.

My wrist took charge; I corkscrewed in with a perfect bind to seconde—and my blade went through his body.

He looked surprised, brought his bell up in salute, and crumpled at the knees as the grip fell from his hand. I had to move forward with my blade as he fell, then started to pull it out of him.

He grasped it. "No, no, my friend, please leave it there. It corks the wine, for a time. Your logic is sharp and touches my heart. Your name, sir?"

"Oscar of Gordon."

"A good name. One should never be killed by a stranger. Tell me, Oscar of Gordon, have you seen Carcassonne?"

"No."

"See it. Love a lass, kill a man, write a book, fly to the Moon—I have done all these." He gasped and foam came out of his mouth, pink. "I've even had a house fall on me. What devastating wit! What price honor when timber taps thy top? ‘Top?' tap? taupe, tape—tonsor! -- when timber taps thy tonsor. You shaved mine."

He choked and went on: "It grows dark. Let us exchange gifts and part friends, if you will. My gift first, in two parts: Item: You are lucky, you shall not die in bed."

"I guess not."

"Please. Item: Friar Guillaume's razor ne'er shaved the barber, it is much too dull. And now your gift, my old—and be quick, I need it. But first—now did that limerick end?"

I told him. He said, very weakly, almost in rattle, "Very good. Keep trying. Now grant me your gift, I am more than ready." He tried to Sign himself.

So I granted him grace, stood wearily up, went to the bench and collapsed on it, then cleaned both blades, first wiping the little Solingen, then most carefully grooming the Lady Vivamus. I managed to stand and salute him with a clean sword. It had been an honor to know him.

I was sorry I hadn't asked him his name. He seemed to think I knew it.

I sat heavily down and looked at the arras covering the rat hole at the end of the room and wondered why Star and Rufo hadn't come out. All that clashing steel and talk—I thought about walking over and shouting for them. But I was too weary to move just yet. I sighed and closed my eyes—

Through sheer boyish high spirits (and carelessness I had been chided for, time and again) I had broken a dozen eggs. My mother looked down at the mess and I could see that she was about to cry. So I clouded up too. She stopped her tears, took me gently by the shoulder, and said, "It's all right, son. Eggs aren't that important." But I was ashamed, so I twisted away and ran.

Downhill I ran, heedless and almost flying—then was shockingly aware that I was at the wheel and the car was out of control. I groped for the brake pedal, couldn't find it and felt panic...then did find it—and felt it sink with that mushiness that means you've lost brake-fluid pressure. Something ahead in the road and I couldn't see. Couldn't even turn my head and my eyes were clouded with something running down into them. I twisted the wheel and nothing happened—radius rod gone.

Screams in my car as we hit! -- and I woke up in bed with a jerk and the screams were my own. I was going to be late to school, disgrace not to be borne. Never born, agony shameful, for the schoolyard was empty; the other kids, scrubbed and virtuous, were in their seats and I couldn't find my classroom. Hadn't even had time to go to the bathroom and here I was at my desk with my pants down about to do what I had been too hurried to do before I left home and all the other kids had their hands up but teacher was calling on me. I couldn't stand up to recite; my pants were not only down I didn't have any on at all if I stood up they would see it the boys would laugh at me the girls would giggle and look away and tilt their noses. But the unbearable disgrace was that I didn't know the answer!

"Come, come!" my teacher said sharply. "Don't waste the class's time, E.G. You Haven't Studied Your Lesson."

Well, no, I hadn't. Yes, I had, but she had written "Problems 1-6" on the blackboard and I had taken that as "1 and 6"—and this was number 4. But She would never believe me; the excuse was too thin. We pay off on touchdowns, not excuses.

"That's how it is, Easy," my Coach went on, his voice more in sorrow than in anger. "Yardage is all very well but you don't make a nickel unless you cross that old goal line with the egg tucked underneath your arm." He pointed at the football on his desk. "There it is. I had it gilded and lettered clear back at the beginning of the season, you looked so good and I had so much confidence in you—it was meant to be yours at the end of the season, at a victory banquet." His brow wrinkled and he spoke as if trying to be fair. "I won't say you could have saved things all by yourself. But you do take things too easy. Easy—maybe you need another name. When the road gets rough, you could try harder." He sighed. "My fault, I should have cracked down. Instead, I tried to be a father to you. But I want you to know you aren't the only one who loses by this—at my age it's not easy to find a new job."

I pulled the covers up over my head; I couldn't stand to look at him. But they wouldn't let me alone; somebody started shaking my shoulder. "Gordon!"

"Le'me ‘lone!"

"Wake up, Gordon, and get your ass inside. You're in trouble."

I certainly was, I could tell that as soon as I stepped into the office. There was a sour taste of vomit in my mouth and I felt awful—as if a herd of buffaloes had walked over me, stepping on me here and there. Dirty ones.

The First Sergeant didn't look at me when I came in; he let me stand and sweat first. When he did look up, he examined me up and down before speaking.

Then he spoke slowly, letting me taste each word. "Absent Over Leave, terrorizing and insulting native women, unauthorized use of government property...scandalous conduct...insubordinate and obscene language...resisting arrest...striking an M.P.—Gordon, why didn't you steal a horse? We hang horse thieves in these parts. It would make it all so much simpler."

He smiled at his own wit. The old bastard always had thought he was a wit. He was half right.

But I didn't give a damn what he said. I realized dully that it had all been a dream, just another of those dreams I had had too often lately, wanting to get out of this aching jungle. Even She hadn't been real. My—what was her name? -- even her name I had made up. Star. My Lucky Star—Oh, Star, my darling, you aren't!

He went on: "I see you took off your chevrons. Well, that saves time but that's the only thing good about it. Out of uniform. No shave. And your clothes are filthy! Gordon, you are a disgrace to the Army of the United States. You know that, don't you? And you can't sing your way out of this one. No I.D. on you, no pass, using a name not your own. Well, Evelyn Cyril my fine lad, we'll use your right name now. Officially."

He swung around in his swivel chair—he hadn't had his fat ass out of it since they sent him to Asia, no patrols for him. "Just one thing I'm curious about. Where did you get that? And whatever possessed you to try to steal it?" He nodded at a file case behind his desk.

I recognized what was sitting on it, even though it had been painted with gold gilt the last time I recalled seeing it whereas now it was covered with the special black gluey mud they grow in Southeast Asia. I started toward it. "That's mine!"

"No, no!" he said sharply. "Burny, burny, boy." He moved the football farther back. "Stealing it doesn't make it yours. I've taken charge of it as evidence. For your information, you phony hero, the docs think he's going to die."

"Who?"

"Why should you care who? Two bits to a Bangkok tickul you didn't know his name when you clobbered him. You can't go around clobbering natives just because you're feeling brisk—they've got rights, maybe you hadn't heard. You're supposed to clobber them only when and where you are told to."

Suddenly he smiled. It didn't improve him. With his long, sharp nose and his little bloodshot eyes I suddenly realized how much he looked like a rat.

But he went on smiling and said, "Evelyn my boy, maybe you took off those chevrons too soon."

"Huh?"

"Yes. There may be a way out of this mess. Sit down." He repeated sharply, " ‘Sit down,' I said. If I had my way we'd simply Section-Eight you and forget you—anything to get rid of you. But the Company Commander has other ideas—a really brilliant idea that could close your whole file. There's a raid planned for tonight. So"—he leaned over, got a bottle of Four Roses and two cups out of his desk, poured two drinks—"have a drink."

Everybody knew about that bottle—everybody but the Company Commander, maybe. But the top sergeant had never been known to offer anyone a drink—save one time when he had followed it by telling his victim that he was being recommended for a general court-martial.

"No, thanks."

"Come on, take it. Hair of the dog. You're going to need it. Then go take a shower and get yourself looking decent even if you aren't, before you see the Company Commander."

I stood up. I wanted that drink, I needed it. I would have settled for the worst rotgut—and Four Roses is pretty smooth—but I would have settled for the firewater old—what was his name? -- had used to burst my eardrums.

But I didn't want to drink with him. I should not drink anything at all here. Nor eat any—

I spat in his face.

He looked utterly shocked and started to melt. I drew my sword and had at him.

It got dark but I kept on laying about me, sometimes connecting, sometimes not.